Contour of Something Formless
To be aloneis a disciplinarium of demandlessness;
to line the hours up
and let them pass
through some kind of method
in a body that is a bulk carrier
becalmed
or in the cramped sea after evil dreams
To have no one to call out to
makes reality uncertain, indistinct,
migraine-aura-numbed,
and the day must be carried out
with the purpose
of giving contour to something formless
To turn on the radio
brings stories
from a distant world in theory;
a painted, stripped-down, smoothed-over one
To keep myself away six weeks
from Anna, the horses, the cats, the hens, the quails,
– even if on necessary retreat assignments –
is a monastic existence in a state of mind of its own
where time, body, the present
drift out into something indeterminate, immaterial,
wherein the self feels like a Rauschenberg canvas
To be worn out
like Marianne Faithfull,
or on the wrong path,
feels clothesline-fluttering,
draft-blown, lutefisk-thinned
and everything I have accumulated
strikes back
To keep the body clean
and wash the dishes directly after the meal
matters most
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2026-05-15 at 10:06
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